


Don’t Hold Your Breath

by Anonymous



Category: Dream Team - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Do you see that? That’s the 1/? of HELL, Gen, George is powered and I don’t know anything about him, Skyrates, YEAH THATS RIGHT I PLANNED MORE, dream is Green that’s all I know, im just. Please it’s 1:40 am, im not proud., suffer, thats right.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25855549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When George is done, the ground is a perfect reflection of the sky. Illusions are his forte, after all, he thinks bitterly. It’s easy. It’s art, in a way.Too bad, he thinks, too bad - too bad no one else can see what he can.He rips the color back, all flax and sage and chalk, cradles it painfully to his chest. He finishes letting his shoulders shake, runs a hand through his hair - sucks it all up with a shuddering breath and shuts his eyes.(Bad snickers, readies his own bow. Sapnap just clenches his jaw. “Lead the way,” he says.Dream grins and pulls the bowstring to his cheek.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 104
Collections: Anonymous





	Don’t Hold Your Breath

**Author's Note:**

> don’t. just don’t. it’s 1:42 am and I’m so tired.

George thinks, sometimes, that his life was always meant to be a tragedy.

Being born into a colony like London looks good on no one’s resume. George is finding this to be more and more true the further south in America he travels. He winds his feeble way down the eastern seaboard colonies, rejected time after time, always the same reason.

“Not enough,” they’ll shrug, a stalwart leader looking down from their comfortable position.

Not enough food to spare, though that is almost always a lie. Not enough space in our community for you, which he supposes he can respect. Not enough need for a worker; underlying message is that his life is not worth their time.

The underlying truth is that _he_ is not enough. 

George is good at smiling and nodding and moving on, a lonely speeder on a barren road, and he’s good at suppressing the growling of his stomach, batting away the black spots in his vision. He’s good at stealing what he needs to, good at faking strength long enough to escape the occasional human pack.

His exodus from a collapsing home, his long journey across the ocean, has brought him nowhere. Sometimes, when he’s not thinking, it hits him how stupid he’s been.

London may have been on the verge of death, but at least they knew him, there. London may have been nothing but towers of soot and ash, but at least he wasn’t alone, there. 

At least he was alive, there.

“A tragedy,” he scoffs to himself, and it echoes in the open field.

His vision paints the sunset marigold and graphite moss and cerulean blue. He squints at it, reaches a hand up, grabs the mustard from the sky and throws it across the dirt. It crashes, splatters, stains the ground a dirty olive. 

He sobs out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Always meant to be a tragedy. 

_Isn’t it funny? A painter for an audience of one._

~

(In the grass behind him, blank-staring eyes on an ivory mask watch the artist at work. 

He reaches up towards the heavens, spreads his arms wide, muscles taught. The colors change with his gestures, like reality itself is bending to his will, like he’s making a mirror for the sky out of a wheat field.

Trying. 

Trying to make a mirror for the sky.

The sunset is fiery orange and red. The color the powered takes from it is a muted yellow, a cloudy gray. From his obscured position, it’s not quite clear, but he thinks the boy might be crying.

Dream narrows his eyes and decides not to take the shot just yet.)

~

When George is done, the ground is a perfect reflection of the sky. 

Illusions are his forte, after all, he thinks bitterly. It’s easy. It’s art, in a way. 

Too bad, he thinks, too bad - too bad no one else can see what he can.

_Useless_ , explains the doctor with an apologetic look at his parents. _Colorblindness and his power just...aren’t compatible, I’m afraid. His power will be, if I may speak bluntly, useless._

He rips the color back, all flax and sage and chalk, cradles it painfully to his chest. He finishes letting his shoulders shake, runs a hand through his hair - sucks it all up with a shuddering breath and shuts his eyes.

He’ll reach the next colony tomorrow. Right now, he’s exhausted.

George hunkers down behind his speeder, curls up on the ground, and prepares for another cold, lonely night.

~

(“Sap,” Dream says, “come on.” 

Sapnap’s hand is tight on his sword. “He could have a gun. I’ll remind you that we’re out-armed, out here.”

“It’s no fun,” Dream says, “no fun to just take them out. Besides, he’s done nothing wrong.”

“He’s powered,” Sapnap says, a justification and an argument. “He could be more dangerous than he looks.”

“He’s harmless,” Dream scoffs. “He does color, and stuff.”

“I’m with Dream,” Bad pipes up, hood pulled over his head and obscuring his eyes. “We should at least give him a chance.”

Dream splays his hands out in front of him. “The vote is two to one.”

“If you get yourself killed,” Sapnap says, and it’s a yes, “if you get one of us killed -“

“I won’t,” Dream says, promises, already pulling an arrow from his quiver. “We’ve never died before. I’m not about to let it happen now.”

Bad snickers, readies his own bow. Sapnap just clenches his jaw. 

“Lead the way,” he says. 

Dream grins and pulls the bowstring to his cheek.)

~

George is still awake when the first arrow lodges itself into the ground beside his feet. 

He starts upright, screams once out of surprise - shuts up long enough to hear the crunching of footsteps coming towards him. The corn in front of him rustles with the approach of the threat. 

Humans, he can tell immediately. The arrow buried feather-deep in the ground screams of archaic desperation, feral hatred.

Someone breaks into his vision. Sunflower, the most vibrant yellow he’s ever seen. They’re gaining on him with a ferocity that shakes him back up to speed.

In the end, he doesn’t even think about it. It’s almost scary how easy it is. 

George struggles to his feet, abandons his speeder along with everything he owns, and runs.

**Author's Note:**

> what if I deleted this when I woke up because I didn’t think about anything before posting it


End file.
